


terriblewonderful

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Cuckolding, F/M, Kink Negotiation, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:10:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete loves being part of this, except for the way he accidentally feels like shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	terriblewonderful

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "negotiation" square at kink_bingo.

Elisa makes Pete nervous.

There are obvious reasons for that, and less-obvious ones. On the one hand, there's the fact that she's married to Patrick and therefore knows all of Patrick's secrets, which means she probably knows all of _Pete's_ secrets. And the way she never, ever looks impressed by him. And that she can do the scary laser-eyed girl stare thing that cuts him off right at the knees.

On the other hand, there's the fact that she puts on three-inch stiletto heels and a black leather jacket with a faux-leopard skin collar when she comes over.

"Hi," he says, standing there with the door open, staring at her. She's standing on his front porch like she owns it, one hand in her jacket pocket, the other clutching her keys. "What's up?"

"You're letting all the a/c out."

He steps back, the unspoken command under her words, and she closes the door behind her. She looks around the entryway and wrinkles her nose a little, the littlest disapproval. Fuck. He is so fucking screwed.

"Where's Patrick?" he asks, looking over her shoulder at the door like Patrick somehow sneaked inside without him noticing.

"At home." She sets her keys on his side table and frowns at the line of shoes underneath it. "You need to clean up better."

"I have a housekeeper."

"Mm. Poor woman."

It's embarrassing how much her disapproval makes him want to squirm. It's stupid. It's really, really stupid. Patrick's wife thinks he's a dumbass and that turns him on. Pete Wentz's stupid, horrible sex problems, part twelve in an infinite series.

"He's at home," she says, and it takes him a minute to remember that she means Patrick. "With the new stuff you sent him. Dead to the world except for his laptop and his guitar. It's cute, for, like, the first hour. Then I get bored."

"And you came over to yell at me?"

"Am I yelling?" One eyebrow arches. She's got, like. Fucking perfectly groomed eyebrows. He'd like to get this woman alone with some tweezers and his face. His everything.

"No." She's using a perfectly reasonable tone of voice, and that makes him even _more_ nervous. Squirmy in his pants area. Fuck.

She tugs at her jacket, bringing the collar up around her neck like a ruff. "Do you like my shoes?"

"What?"

"My shoes." She point down at her feet with her free hand. He follows the gesture down, managing not to get distracted by her miniskirt and bare legs. Not distracted for long, anyway. She has really really really nice legs. Patrick has such great taste in women. Beautiful, smart, strong, nervous-making women. With legs.

Also shoes. "They're great. I like them a lot."

"They make me taller than you."

"That's not hard."

She waits, staring at him for a moment, then purses her lips. She's wearing this dark red lipstick that he fucking covets; imagining how it would look streaked across his skin makes his dick jerk in his jeans, stupid little traitor.

"You should look at them more closely," she says.

Dropping to his knees is such a flood of relief, like the world makes more sense from down there. He can see her legs up close, the little nick from where the razor slipped when she shaved the inside of her knee. He can, he's pretty sure, smell her pussy. It's a terriblewonderful thought the same way her shoes and her jacket and her disdain are terriblewonderful. They all make him want to roll around on the floor and hide his face while she calls him an idiot.

"Shoes, Pete," she snaps, and he immediately drops his eyes to them, inspecting them closely. Every stitch, every buckle. They're strappy black leather heels. They're expensive. They smell like expensive black leather and Elisa's feet. There's really not a whole lot more he can observe about them except that.

"They're great," he says again, and looks up at her.

She's watching him and biting her lip, white teeth against that fucking lipstick. There's no way he's not going to lick her ankle. Then the inner curve of her calf. That cut on her knee. Her inner thigh.

Her panties are all wet and tiny and lacy enough that he can feel the prickle of her pubic hair through them. He runs his nose along the edge of them, breathing her in, and licks the wettest spot.

"You're like a dog," she says. Her voice is still the same tone, but he can hear down underneath it now, hear where he's making her want to shake.

He feels so fucking dirty.

She slides her hands up her thighs, under her skirt, and catches the waistband of her panties; pushes them down off her hips, down her legs, steps out of them with two precise clicks of her shoes. She drops the little piece of lace and elastic on the floor and he has to curl his fingers into his palm to keep from grabbing it, holding it to his face, shoving it down his pants.

"Don't just sit there," she says.

So he doesn't; he gets up in between her thighs, he shoves his face against her, he licks until his jaw aches and he thinks he's going to tear something in the base of his tongue. He eats her out until she has to brace her hands back against the door, until she curses under her breath and her thighs shake. He goes down-fucking-town on her until she comes so hard he has juice dripping off his chin, and he doesn't wipe his face because she didn't give permission.

She wipes his face _for_ him, with her panties, and then she folds them up in a neat little square and shoves them into her jacket pocket. "For Patrick," she says, flashing him a grin. The lipstick looks good that way, too.

"You going to tell him all about it?"

"In detail." She fluffs her hair and checks her face in the mirror over the side table. "I think he'll be all over this one."

"It'll get him off the laptop, at least."

"Definitely." She smirks at herself and then reaches down to muss up his hair. "I'm sure he'll call you later."

"I won't expect it for a few hours."

"I appreciate that." She grabs her keys and heads out the door, her heels clicking ecstatically against the tiles. "Bye!"

He stretches out on his back after she's gone, feeling the cool floor through his t-shirt while he blinks up at the ceiling. The difference between sex-nervousness and anxiety is terriblewonderful, too.

So is Elisa.

**

He wishes he could call Meagan. Their breakup was amicable, it was fine, it was actually the best breakup he's ever had. He probably _could_ call her, and she would be sympathetic and reassuring and validate his emotions and when he got off the phone he would be sad for three days that they didn't work out.

So he's not going to call her, then.

Bronx thinks he's awesome, but Bronx is four. He thinks a lot of things are awesome. And Pete can't exactly ask his kid to validate his feelings. That's the opposite of good parenting.

Besides, Bronx is never around when this stuff happens and he ends up _feeling weird_ , because Elisa knows Bronx's schedule as well as he does and doesn't set foot in the house if the kid isn't at least an hour away. Rules are rules. That's an important one.

The person he's supposed to go to with his fucked-up feelings is his therapist. There is no way he's talking about this in therapy. He can't think of a single idea worse than that. Maybe telling Ashlee. Or Gabe. God, Gabe would kill him for going this far into the world of bad decision-making without a map.

He's just going to have to figure this one out for himself.

**

Elisa eases off him, slipping her hand between her legs as she moves. "I'm going to go clean up."

Pete nods and takes the condom off, not watching her go. This is the strange moment, after they come apart from each other, when she's sweaty and he's cold all over.

He gets his underwear on and waits for her to come back. She's smiling, when she does, her hands up behind her head twisting her hair up into a neat little knot held in place with pins. He never got how girls could do that. It looks a lot like magic.

"Thanks," she says. "That was fun."

"Totally." He watches her step into her shoes and look around for her jacket. His thighs still ache where her nails dug in. "Can you have Patrick call me later?"

She glances at him, her smile quirking a little in puzzlement. "Of course. I always do."

"Or, like, maybe he could come over."

"Oh." She nods, patting her hair and then picking up her coat. "You have stuff to work on?"

"Sure." He's always got stuff. It's probably not worthwhile stuff, but it's there and he has it.

"I'll tell him. I don't know if he'll come tonight or want to wait till tomorrow. But he'll call you for sure."

"You like me, right?" He bites his tongue a moment too late. God dammit.

"Oh, Pete." She sighs, her hands dropping to her sides, her jacket almost slipping out of her grasp. "Please don't."

"Sorry."

"Don't make this a thing. Don't make this weird."

"It's not weird yet?"

"Pete."

"I mean, we're fucking. A lot of people might find that weird."

"I'm leaving now." She looks at him, then steps closer and kisses his cheek. "I like you. Stop worrying."

"Got it." He keeps nodding until she's gone, then drags his hand through his hair and kicks at the end of the couch. Stop worrying. Don't make it weird. Right.

**

Patrick comes over the next morning, early-ish, with Starbucks and chocolate croissants. "Evil genius," Pete greets him at the door. "So evil."

"I'm lawful good." Patrick looks cheerful, awake, glad to be there. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, even. Pete has a sudden flash behind his eyes of how Elisa looked moving above him, her hands braced on his thighs, her eyes narrowed in concentration. He has a sudden flash in his dick of how tight she was around him, how she moved her hips to let him work up against her and reach everywhere she wanted him to be.

It's distracting. She is distracting. He almost chokes on his coffee.

"So what do you have for me?" Patrick sets his croissant aside and claps his hands. "I'm ready."

"I've got..." Pete waves his hand vaguely. "Snippets. Little things."

Patrick frowns. "We've got three full songs in progress. I don't really need snippets right now."

Pete stares at him, suddenly lost. Coffee won't save him. Even chocolate can't. "Sorry."

Patrick looks at him closely enough that Pete wants to flinch. "You need to talk about something?"

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know, maybe not."

"Talk to me."

Pete bites his lip. "The thing."

"What thing?"

Nobody in this room is stupid, Pete's pretty sure, but he is open to the possibility of revising that opinion. "The me and Elisa thing."

Patrick's face shuts down. "Oh. That thing."

"Yeah. That's pretty much the only thing in my life that I would call a _thing_."

"I don't want to talk about that." Patrick picks his coffee up again and takes a weirdly aggressive sip.

"Well... I sort of do."

"That defeats the whole point, Pete. It wrecks the whole fantasy."

Pete blinks. "Oh."

"I mean... right?" Patrick waves his free hand. "Try to see this from my point of view."

Someone is definitely acting stupid here. Pete's still taking input on which of them it is.

"So everything is fine," Pete says finally. "With you."

"Everything is great." Patrick nods and takes another drink. "You?"

My interest in your wife may no longer be strictly sexual, Pete thinks.

I may be imprinting on her like a duckling, he wants to say.

I dream about her slapping my face and then petting my hair and telling me I did well, what do you think about that, is that weird?

But Patrick doesn't want to talk about this.

He picks up his own coffee and smiles, pulling his lips back from his teeth consciously. "Yeah, dude. Everything's good."

**

Pete is in the middle of a long-term project of learning to use his words. It's more difficult than it has any right to be, in general. With Elisa, it's even more difficult than that.

"You could," he says, while she's sliding up on the couch and pulling her skirt up to her waist. "You could. Um. If you wanted."

"I could what?"

He looks down, watching his fingers undo his jeans, peeling back the denim to the boxer-briefs underneath. Red today, so it's like he's pulling his skin off, baring blood and viscera. "You could stick around after. If you want."

"Stick around?"

Turning his words into questions can't be good. "Yeah."

She frowns and sits up, smoothing her skirt over her thighs again. "That's not really what this is about, is it?"

There's a right answer and a wrong answer and an answer that is the same cop-out she was using. "Is it?"

She looks left and right, her arms wrapping around herself, and he can read that body language well enough to know she's right on the edge of walking out the door. "Do you want to change the rules, Pete?"

He doesn't know what the rules _are_ anymore. Probably he can't tell her that. Definitely, he can't. "No. No, of course not. Sorry. I'm just talking, don't worry about it."

"Are you sure? Because... I mean, if you need to change things, I can call Patrick and we can try to figure something out."

And they can wreck Patrick's fantasy and it'll be all Pete's fault. "No. No, everything's fine. Forget I said anything. Hey." He moves in close and straddles her on the couch, leaning in and pressing his mouth to hers. It takes a minute to actually become a kiss--there's a beat where he's afraid she's going to push him back and leave anyway--but then she relaxes and pulls him closer, wrapping her legs around him, and things go the way they're supposed to go.

When she's getting ready to leave she brushes her hand over his hair, absent-minded, almost like petting, and he thinks about asking her again to stay. Just to hang out, or, like... cuddle, maybe. Something.

But that would be changing the rules, still, and fuck if he knows how to do it.

**

Pete isn't used to tour being a refuge from weirdness. Usually it's the other way around.

This time, though, this tour, it's him and Patrick on a bus, and Marcus is there, and everything is so normal and calm. They talk about music and movies, TV and sports. They hang out with Joe and Andy. They play shows. Kids scream up at them and they scream back and it feels--it feels good. Normal.

They don't talk about the thing. Not even once. It doesn't even hint at threatening to come up. Pete can almost let himself pretend he dreamed it all.

When Elisa comes out to visit, she always goes straight for Patrick, sticks close to him, touching him, leaning on him, because they haven't seen each other for a while and that's what people who love each other do. Pete knows what he's watching, every movement sweet and sincere. He watches them, because it's nice to watch, and he doesn't let himself look at Elisa's legs except when he's too tired to help it.

They keep their space from each other, not friendly but not unfriendly. He hears Joe say to Patrick once that it must be tough for him that his wife and his best friend don't get along better. He hears Patrick's vague, noncommittal reply.

And it's _still_ less weird than at home. 

Everything is fine here. Cross his heart.

**

He's surprised when the knock comes on his door at the hotel that night. Honestly, truly surprised.

He's not _sorry_.

She's so fucking tiny, she fits right in his hands. He wraps them around her waist and boosts her up onto the edge of the dresser, and she laughs, kicking her feet out and hooking them around his thighs, pulling him in tight against her. Her fingers go to his fly and his breath trips and falls in his chest, knocking up against every rib as it goes down.

"Hurry," she says. "He's in the shower. We don't have a lot of time."

He loves stories, he loves lies, and maybe that's why they picked him for this; he'll stick with every beat she throws at him as if it was real.

He gets his hand up under her skirt while she fights with his zipper, kissing her to keep quiet while he traces his fingers over her and teases until she's wet. Then getting inside her, twisting his fingers like he's trying to open her up enough to get his whole hand in. He knows what she likes by now, knows just how to touch her, and maybe _that's_ weird, or maybe it's not. He doesn't fucking know anymore.

Somewhere between getting her off with his hand and getting his dick in her, she takes her shirt off, and he ends up coming with his face buried between her breasts, leaving a muddled mess of teeth marks and hickey behind. Leaving marks isn't against the rules, though maybe he should've asked if the rules are the same out here on the road. He didn't even know they were _doing_ this out here on the road. They could've sent him an email or something.

She leaves her panties behind this time, slipping away and out of the room like a ghost. He falls back on the bed and watches the ceiling for descending avenging angels. No rest for the terminally confused.

**

Someone starts banging on his door at six AM, which is against every kind of rule. He rolls out of bed and shuffles to open the door, staring bleary-eyed as Andy pushes past him into the room.

"What the fuck, Hurley?" he mumbles. "What's going on?"

"You tell me, man." Andy crosses the room to the window, stares out for a minute, then kicks the armchair. Pete flinches back despite himself; Andy never lashes out like that. It goes against his... whatever-they-are principles. 

"You're going to have to give me a little more to go by," he says finally, rubbing his eyes. 

"I need you to be honest with me."

Pete's throat closes up a little. "Okay," he says, putting his hand over it. "I _am_ honest with you. That's, like. One of the things we agreed on when we tried this again."

Andy's still staring out the window. "Earlier tonight I was coming back from the gym and I ran into Elisa by the elevator."

His throat constricts a little more. "Elisa?"

"Patrick's wife Elisa. Pretty sure you've met her."

"Fuck you, dude."

"See, no." Andy turns around and leans against the wall, staring at him. "Fuck _you_ , because Elisa was wearing _your t-shirt_."

Pete forgets all about his throat, because his heart stops.

"So, like, here I am," Andy says. "After spending a few hours freaking out about this, because you're my friend and I want to give you a chance to tell me this isn't what it looks like. Because goddamn it, Pete, this better not be what it looks like. You're better than that. I _know_ you're better than that. Please, please, please do not fucking prove me wrong, here."

"It's not what it looks like." Pete doesn't have fingernails, the bass makes sure of that, but he digs the tips of his fingers into his palms as hard as he can. "It isn't. Really. I swear."

Andy's shoulders sag. "Okay. Okay. That's... thank you. Seriously."

"Don't thank me." Pete tries to laugh, but it comes out all fucked-up and nasal and wrong. "It's weirder than what it looks like."

"Oh, Jesus." Andy closes his eyes and bangs his head back against the wall. "Okay. Lay it on me."

"I don't think I can?"

"Of course you can. You can trust me. That's one of the things we agreed on, too."

"Right. I know. But I mean, I don't think I can tell you because it's Patrick and Elisa's stuff, too. I mean. That's all I mean."

Andy bangs his head again. "All right. Let's go up to their room, then."

"It's kind of early?"

"I cannot begin to tell you how much I don't fucking care."

There's a point with Andy where everybody just stops pushing, because the consequences of pushing further would be bad. Pete experienced those consequences plenty of times when they were younger. He's too old for that shit now.

If Patrick wants to deal with it, that's his problem.

"Okay." He pulls on a hat, tugging it as low over his eyebrows as he can. Stealth gear. "Lead the way."

**

Andy bangs on the door until Patrick lets them in. Pete just follows along, trying to keep his eyes to himself, his hands shoved down under the waistband of his pajama pants and twisted in the fabric of his boxer-briefs.

"What the hell?" Patrick's voice is thick and scratchy with sleep. Elisa is sitting up in the bed, holding the covers to her chest like someone in a photoshoot. Pete glances at her, then away, avoiding her eyes. No silent communication. That's even worse than actually talking.

"We need to talk about whatever's going on," Andy says, and Pete turns all his attention to him and Patrick, because this is probably going to turn into yelling really fast and he should defuse it if he can. Which, that's anyone's guess. His superpowers are limited.

"Nothing is going on," Patrick says. "You woke us up."

Andy points at Elisa deliberately. "I saw her."

Give Patrick credit, he doesn't back down from bluffing. "You saw her what?"

In this case, though, Andy is actually holding the cards he says he is. "I saw her walking down the hall in Pete's t-shirt and no pants."

Pete closes his eyes too fast to see anybody's reaction, but it sounds like Patrick chokes and Elisa stifles a small scream.

"What did Pete tell you?" Patrick asks carefully. If Pete didn't still have his hands down his pants, he would flip Patrick off for that. Asshole.

"He told me it wasn't his to share, it was all of yours. So here we are." Andy gestures around the room. "So talk."

"It's nothing that needs talking about."

Andy takes a deep breath and lets it go. "Pete, what's that song Bronx brought home from playgroup? The one about secrets?"

"Um." Pete clears his throat. "Secrets, secrets, are no fun, secrets, secrets, hurt someone."

"Yeah." Andy shakes his head. "No more secrets in the band, Patrick. We agreed on that."

"This isn't _about_ the band," Patrick says, but he's starting to sound a little desperate. "It's just between us."

"If you're going to bring it on tour, it's all of us. You brought it into the hotel, so it's all of us."

"Andy," Elisa says. "Please."

Andy stares at her for a beat, then shakes his head. "You guys need to keep it off the tour. Out of band space."

"Yes." Patrick nods. "Yes, absolutely, no question, we will do that. Are we done now?"

"I don't know." Andy looks over his shoulder. "Pete?"

Pete shrugs, digging his fingers into his thighs.

"Maybe you stay and talk to them?" Andy shakes his head. "And I go somewhere else and try to remember why I put up with this?"

"Don't be mad," Pete mumbles.

"I'm not mad. I just need to be somewhere else."

I know the feeling, Pete thinks, but somehow he ends up just standing there while Andy walks out. The door closes really loudly and it's just him, Patrick, and Elisa, sitting there with the hum of the air conditioning.

"Uh," Pete says after a moment. "Um."

"Do we need to talk?" Patrick asks.

"You don't want to talk."

Elisa sighs and brushes her hair off her forehead. "He asked if we _need_ to, though. That's different."

"Um." Pete shrugs again. "I don't know. Maybe?"

Patrick sits down on the edge of the bed. "Is this about your feelings? Are you having feelings?"

"I'm always having feelings."

"But are these, like, bad feelings?"

Pete curls his lip back to show his teeth. "On a scale of one to bad, these are, like..."

"Fuck you."

"Does she even _like_ me?" Pete shuts his eyes. "Never mind. Forget I asked that."

"I've told you that I like you," Elisa says. "I told you like a hundred times."

"But you never..." Pete's stomach twists up into knotted butterflies. "You never want to hang out after. You never want to talk to me. You barely even _look_ at me. You just get dressed and go home."

She frowns, twisting the edge of the sheet around her fingers. "Part of the whole... thing is going home to Patrick while I'm still all... you know."

"I know. I get it. I know I don't deserve to want whatever, because I knew from the beginning that it wasn't the point. So I'm not asking you to change. I'm just saying that it makes me feel kind of... crappy."

"Having sex with my wife makes you feel crappy," Patrick says.

"No, the way she's just using me for my dick does." Pete claps his hand over his mouth. "That wasn't supposed to be out loud," he mutters through his fingers.

"You think I'm using you?" Elisa scrambles out of the bed, the blankets falling away from her body. "Oh my god."

"She is not _using_ you, Pete, don't be an asshole!"

Pete gives up and drops his hand. "She _is_ , though! You both are! And it's fine or whatever except that it makes me feel like shit."

"Shit." Elisa presses her hands over her face. "Oh... shit. Patrick."

"Yes, I am hearing all of this, I promise."

"We fucked up," she says. "We fucked up, like, bad."

"I am aware." Patrick looks at her and his face softens, and Pete's heart flutters around like it always does when Patrick makes that face or he sees a puppy. "Do you want some underpants?"

"Just... just give me a t-shirt." She takes a deep breath and walks over to Pete, cupping his face in her hands and staring into his eyes. "I'm really sorry we hurt you."

He nods, just a little. "Can we wait to talk until you have the shirt on?"

"Fuck." She pulls away and takes the t-shirt Patrick hands her; it's Pete's shirt, the one she left his room in earlier. The shirt that set off Andy's alarm bells. They really do have to learn to be more careful.

"The reason I call you every time is so you know I still like you," Patrick says, and Pete tries to jerk his brain back to the subject at hand. "That's not good enough, though? That's not right?"

"It tells me you still like me, yeah." Pete shrugs. "But I kind of want the person I'm fucking to like me, too."

"I _do_." Elisa's voice breaks a little and Pete feels a flare of panic in his chest. He's so fucking bad at this, at talking to people about what he wants. It always turns into making everyone else feel bad. "I told you so."

"Right. I know. I'm sorry. I just... I need to see it, too. Feel it." He holds his hands out, helpless. "It's how I'm built."

Patrick exhales roughly. "When you put it that way, we just look like a couple of assholes."

"I don't think you're assholes. I think we never talked about it."

"You asked to talk about it and I said no."

"Yeah, but I could've insisted, I could've..." Pete shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't know what to do now, either."

"Do we need to stop? Like, stop all of it?"

"I think we just need to do it differently."

"But differently _how_?"

"He said," Elisa cuts in. "He needs to see and feel how we think about him."

"But without cutting out the parts that are the whole point." Pete shakes his head and takes a step back. "I don't know how to do that."

"Well," Elisa says after a moment, "right now we're not doing anything. Right? It's not breaking up the moment. So if we all got in bed together and went back to sleep or cuddled or something, that would... right?"

Pete stares at her. "Patrick, your wife is a genius."

"I know." Patrick takes Elisa's hand. "Isn't it great?"

"She's super-hot, too. Like. Just so you know."

"I know. And we're not doing that right now."

"Okay." Pete looks at the bed. "We're really going to..."

"Yes." Elisa climbs back into bed, tugging Patrick along with her. "Because it is too fucking early to be awake, and I need to be held, and so do you."

"What about Patrick?"

"I don't, really," Patrick says, "but I'll be the big spoon."

It takes a few minutes to arrange themselves on the bed, ending up with Elisa in the middle, her arms warm and tight around Pete's waist. Pete closes his eyes and breathes slowly, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He isn't going to fall asleep, he knows that, but he can drift here, and feel this, and think about how maybe things are going to be okay. Maybe.

He can hear his own heartbeat.

_terriblewonderful. terriblewonderful._

_wonderful._


End file.
